Elemental Malice
by Raven Dragonclaw
Summary: An Elemental fic. Tom Riddle has dreams, strange for an orphan growing up in 'Endsville'. But he knows there's something out there for him. He finds a letter inviting him to a magic school. He's eager to go, and so is the voice in his head.
1. Eternally Forsaken

_**Disclaimer:**_ I only own the plot and the concept, along with any original characters and places you don't recognize.

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**BEFORE YOU CONTINUE ON, IT IS ADVISED THAT YOU READ THE FIC ELEMENTAL GENESIS. IT WILL CLARIFY A FEW THINGS.**

I say this to those who aren't really familiar with my Elemental universe. In my Elemental series, we find out that Voldemort isa demon sent by a malicious goddess and was possessing Tom's body. Tom's soul, in the meantime, was saved by another goddess.For years, he has been an ethereal plain in between the lands of the dead and the living. During the war with Voldemort, many of the victims pass by him on their way to be judged in the land of the dead. In Genesis, he manages to find a way to communicate with an amnesiac-Harry.

This is the story of Tom's youth - his ambition being his greatest strength and greatest weakness. This is before Voldemort took over and how Voldemort took over at that. This chapter is an introduction, he will go to Hogwarts in a few chapters.

_I am not British, so if there's any discrepancies or anything like that, don't flame me about it. Pointing them out to me would be appreciated._

I still advise any unfamiliar readers to read Elemental Genesis first. I hope you enjoy the story.

---Raven Dragonclaw

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**Warning!** Some aspects of this story will be a bit adult (nothing too big, but Tom doesn't exactly live the good life. Not only is there abuse, but there is some cursing and coarse language). Just warning you ahead of time.

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**Elemental Malice**

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**Chapter One  
Eternally Forsaken  
**

_I never had much. Higgins says I never will – that I'm some dirty trash born to a madwoman and a sorry son-of-a-bitch. I know what he's saying about my mother is untrue. I can feel it. But as for the wonderful epithet given to my father? I'm not strongly inclined to disagree._

_It's a dog-eat-dog world. And I'm not going to turn out to be some disgusting ruffian on the streets of Endsville. I deserve better than that. I know I do. And I'd like to see anyone question that._

_- Tom M. Riddle  
_

A photograph. That was all he had of her. Just an outdated photograph. He didn't know why he kept it with him, why he treasured it as if it were some kind of beautiful and invaluable jewel. Maybe it was because it was all he had of her, the only thing that he could retain of her before she left him alone in this cruel world, minutes after she pushed him into it.

In a way, he hated her for that.

_Calandra Riddle_. That was all he knew of her. Other than the fact that her father's name was Marvolo. She had enough time to name him before she was gone. And when she did, it was an utterly despicable name. _Tom Marvolo Riddle._ She had named him after the very man who left her to her death, who abandoned him before he was even born, who would under no circumstances take in that "bastard freak" of his. The miserable irony of the world - to be named after the father who hated you before you even met him.

It was no big deal to Tom. Perhaps it was because he felt a deeper hatred towards the father than vice-versa. That void was deep and dark, empty excepting for the coiling energy that was his repressed rage. This was not brought about whatever conceit or instigation of fear that his father possessed, that prejudice that allowed him to give up his only child without a backwards glance. No, this was stronger and much more dangerous. This was hatred, pure and simple. And for an eleven year old child, it was a sad sight to see.

_...You will get back at him...you'll see...he'll pay for what he has done...they all will...you'll see...the blood of the enemy will make us stronger..._

The small boy shivered, despite the warm temperature of the sunny day. The drab grayness of the cemetery compelled him to leave. And, like always, never return. There was a reason why the graves, pitiful as they were, were so neglected. Several of the names had completely eroded away from the stone, others were crumpling. Even his own mother's was no better, already showing signs of inevitable decay.

Was nothing sacred?

As the small black-haired boy walked out of the land of the dead, the brown grass and withered weeds crackled beneath the flapping soles of old boots. He was dressed in what used to be salvageable clothing, but now passed as shadow-colored rags that hung off his thin body. The uniform of the orphanage - all gray. Gray shirt, gray jacket, gray pants - it depended on you to make sure that they stayed in good shape. Or else.

He hated gray. He wanted color. But in this world, color and difference were bad and subject to punishment.

He disliked that voice in his head, that silibant and diabolical voice that had always been whispering in his ear, for as long as he remembered. Tom knew it was bad to hear voices, but things were bad enough at the orphanage. It was enough that he was poorly clothed and barely had enough to eat, he didn't need to be beaten more than he already was.

No, it was better not to say nothing at all. Higgins was bad and Tom did not want to see the sadistic bastard that ran the Carthage Orphanage than he had to. It didn't help that Tom - for apparent reason than for existing and possessing some semblance of intelligence - was already targeted for the most miniscule of crimes. The others soon realized how things were run. Excepting a few others that were as unlucky as he was, the other kids rarely ever got in trouble. Sure, they were beaten and abused as well. But not with the same frequency as "The Untouchables" were.

And Tom? He was the head of "The Untouchables" by default. Around the neighborhood, as awful as it was, he was called **Viper**. They said he acted and moved like a snake. In every word there was either threat or venom.

This was not necessarily true. But it kept several of the others away. Others that would have interfered in his life, however pathetic and disgusting as it was, and make it even worse. In this rotten part of the city, so repulsive and flatulent that it was just known as Endsville, morality was something of a rarity. The buildings were in disrepair, the sidewalks broken, and the streets were more like one giant pothole than anything else. A drunk lay passed out in the gutter, a bottle of cheap wine clasped tightly in his hand, the purple liquid running out down into the drainpipe. Some homeless men slumped in doorways and in the alleyways. As he looked, a suspicious man was handing another man (one who plainly didn't belong in Endsville) a needle and a few vials, the money being exchanged both crisp and green. Prostitutes hung around the corners in revealing clothing, waiting for customers, jeering at him with voices like harpies as he continued on to the place he had to call home. Their pimp, a man known around here as Abraham, gave him a toothless grin from which he recoiled, then recovered with a fierce blue stare. One that made Abraham and his garish clothing immediately back down.

In tough times, there was always a way to make money. And for Abraham, it was the selling of others' bodies for others' pleasure. In tough times, things were even worse in tough places like Endsville. In tough times, anyone would do. Including young boys that had no real guardians who could press charges. Who no one would believe. Who no one would care about.

He was one of the few to remain untouched - another connotation of that title. In the orphanage, being an "Untouchable" was just not normal. No, it just wasn't. Not in Endsville. It was that kind of attitude that disgusted him. He was better than this - _deserved _better than this. Tom knew it instinctively - he didn't need that voice in his head to tell him so.

The sun was beginning to set. With deep dark blue eyes squinting into the hazy gray sky, he figured it was. You couldn't miss curfew. Or else you would have to go to The Basement. And The Basement was the worst. To be locked up with no food, water, or toilet...without a bed or blanket...with no windows...you were stuck among the shadows, unable to escape because of the chains. It was hell given form on Earth. Despite having been there many tmes, he still feared it.

Also the worst of the lot came out after the sun left the sky. Worse than were even out now. If Endsville was bad enough during the day, at night...there was a reason why Higgins kept the gates of the orphanage locked securely after eight o'clock, triple padlocked and barricaded. Who knew what could happen? Though Tom had the feeling that if anyone did get into Carthage Orphanage at night and surpassed Higgins' security precautions, that son of a bitch would just abandon them to their apparent fate.

As he walked through the side gate, taking care to lock it behind him, looked up at the forbidding dilapated building. How he hated this place. The doberman guard dog gave him a cautious, but careful, glance. Blitzer knew better than to cross with Tom, as did Heimmler and Zureig (Higgins was an avid supporter of the Nazi regime in Germany, to Tom's immense disgust). He was an Untouchable, which made him dangerous enough, but one that was stranger than the rest. One they knew they shouldn't aggravate or else suffer the consequences.

What had happened to the fourth of the vicious canines, the most aggressive and ferocious of them all (and, of course, their leader), affectionately named 'Adolf', was still up to speculation. All that was clear was that Adolf had attempted to cross Tom. After that, no one knew. And Tom wasn't talking. He was forced to take a week in The Basement.

Now...the worse part...the rest of the orphans that were left in this God-forsaken place...

"Oy, Viper! Gon' to yah mummy's grave didn' ya?!"

"Yeah, I bet he cried like a baby over 'dear mummy's' grave!"

"Cor, I bet he was a-havin' a bloody tantrum! Poor little Riddle, his mummy's gone away!"

"Blimey, I bet you're right, Frankie! Tough luck, he's just a weakling! He's got to get over hisself!"

A photograph. All he had of his mother was a photograph of a young girl playing a violin. In the darkness of that picture, he thought he could see the shape of black wings. And, his eyes may have tricked him, but the color was off. Instead of black and white like pictures were, this was black and red. It looked as if it wanted to move. That was all. The only thing that could somehow show him a future that he could have had, but could never get.

The glass marbles that the group of dirty boys and girls were playing with suddenly exploded, each sending out shards of glass and flame. Each of the orphans ran away shrieking like banshees, running inside to the supposed safety of the main building, leaving Tom alone in the playground. Alone - the other Untouchables were probably inside already...or in the Basement. From the far end of the paved open space, the doberman dogs watched him with rapt attention - something akin to both fear and admiration in their carnivorously bent feral minds.

The children of Carthage Orphanage would be like all the others who would come before them - they would become the next generation of lowlifes and rabble to infest the country, most likely staying around in Endsville. It was their fate and was invariably carried out. One of Abraham the pimp's most popular girls was a sixteen year old waif that had left just last week, with more experience than any girl her age should have. The older boys were already taking swigs of the whiskey and rum. They were the future of the lower rung of society, that filthy rabble, who were merely just boils on the body of the world. Stupid and only knowing the basest emotions and instincts, they would be let out of the world by Higgins and other men like him to self-destruction. And if they had children along the way, they would leave them to that same destiny.

But Tom "Viper" Riddle was different. Viper was Untouchable.


	2. Ray of Hope

_Disclaimer:_ I only own the plot and the concept, along with any original characters and places you don't recognize.**

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****Warning!** Some aspects of this story will be a bit adult (nothing too big, but Tom doesn't exactly live the good life. Not only is there abuse, but there is some cursing, coarse language, and sexual allusions). Just warning you ahead of time.

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**Elemental Malice

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**

**Chapter Two  
****Ray of Hope  
**

_Higgins once told us that we should never, under any circumstances, have any hope for our future. He claimed he was sparing us, claiming that all of us had no future in the end. We'll all end up like he was and like all others who lived in Endsville. Worthless and overlooked, a people who never climbed that metaphorical ladder to a better life. According to him, we were destined to stay in this shithole._

_Nearly everyone agreed with him, essentially damning his or herself to this Godforsaken town. Frankie and Bobby, being the dumbest (therefore, the obvious leaders) of the lot of us, proclaimed loudly that Higgins (or 'Uncle Silas', as the prats called him) was right and that we should all follow their example. They, of course, got a larger portion of food than the rest of us._

_I don't give a damn what Higgins said. He's a idiot bastard who should rot in Hell, or better yet on Endsville's very own streets. I'm getting out of here. There has to be something better out there for me._

_There just has to be._

_- Tom M. Riddle_

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The room was undeniably depressing. But most of the house was, so it was considered no big deal that they were living in a condemned building. It should have been knocked down over twelve years ago, but the war had distracted the bureaucracy. Who cares if they missed a few buildings? There was a war to fight and people to kill. Never mind that some disgusting piece of shit of society took down the sign, slapped on some plaster and paint, and pretended to run an orphanage for unfortunate orphans.

Unfortunate. The children were unfortunate to be under the care of Silas Higgins. But most being of the type who had always known this life or who weren't the kind to question anything, they were under the impression that they were doing well. Tom Marvolo Riddle was not one of them.

You had to always wear your shoes because the wooden floors were in such bad repair that you could get splinters. You befell an worse fate if you managed to be the unlucky one to step on a nail. Either way, you were on your own. He had known a few who had left the orphanage with an infected foot from a splinter or suffering from tetanus. They never came back. It was from his experience that Tom doubted that they received medical care and, upon seeing their sorry states of health, were handed over to Social Services so they could find loving homes. Or at least a better orphanage. No, Higgins was far too careful for that. They were probably abandoned somewhere, their lives given up to Fate. Or, even more likely, to Death.

As he lay on his thin mattress, arms pillowing his head, Tom felt rather jealous of them.

The walls were bare and empty, the plaster sometimes flaking off, sometimes coming off in chunks. They were horrendously thin. Winters were hard because of the lack of insulation, most having to wear most of their clothing just to keep warm under the tattered blankets they were given. In the summer, like now, it was no better. Nearly all of the orphans did the exact opposite of what they did in the winter – wear hardly anything at all. Tom didn't conform to this, despite the practicality of it. Even now, when he was supposed to be sleeping, he wore long pants and a t-shirt. Considering where they lived, walking around in thin skimpy clothing wasn't exactly the smart thing to do when it came to one's well being. Abraham, the local pimp, had his biggest profit during this time.

It didn't take a genius to figure out exactly what he was alluding to. One of the girls, two years older than him (he was ten), had come back tonight wearing only her bra and an old baggy pair of men's shorts. Her face was flushed and she was greeted with several catcalls. He knew what had happened, what she had been doing, and that she was proud of it. As she passed by him to sit with Frankie and Bobby, she gave him a secret grin. Choosing to ignore her and instead eat what little he had before some attempted to steal it, Tom had settled for giving her cold glare. It only made her smile even more.

He crinkled his nose in abhorrence. He could hear exactly what was going on in the next room. It wasn't uncommon for that to be going on around this end of the building. It was far away from where Higgins stayed, so you weren't caught often. The creaking mattress and the guttural moans made it nearly impossible for him to sleep. Perhaps that was why Tom was put there. Only the older kids slept in the north and east halls on the third floor. On the first and second floor, where Higgins' dormitories were, the younger kids had their rooms. Tom Riddle was the only person under fifteen that had his room in the notorious 'Recreation Wing'.

Yeah. Sex was recreation here. A repulsive thought. Tom sometimes wondered if all he was going through would scar him later in life. Closing his eyes and covering his ears to try and get some forty winks, he reflected on it. It probably would.

Being what he was – a "freak" – he shared his room with only one other person. That one person, an older boy by the name of Billy Sanders, wasn't here at the time. Most likely, Higgins was yelling at him down in the dining room or his 'office' for being slow-witted again. Billy was about fifteen, maybe sixteen, but had the mentality of a eight or nine year old. His mother was a prostitute and an alcoholic. The Lord only knew who his father was. There was a name for the condition, but Tom didn't know the name of it. An Untouchable by default, Billy usually was found sitting on the roof, looking for rainbows and spouting out some nonsense about being a star in the sky a long time ago. Tom was really the only one to go near 'Turtle' willingly. His nickname came from his large figure that was usually hunched over in bashfulness or fear, the pasty and irregular features of his face, and the fact that he was 'just as slow and dumb as a turtle'.

Higgins himself gave Billy that title. Two older boys and the real leaders of the whole orphanage, Donald Carlson and Kurt Nichols, pressed its usage and the persecution of the poor boy. Frankie Boone and Bobby Peters, the resident leaders of the younger set and two years older than he was, encouraged it.

The door creaked open slowly…too slowly. It couldn't be Billy. The older boy would come running in bawling after one of Higgins' tirades, not try to sneak in. Not moving, he kept his dark blue eyes trained on the entrance. However, the lack of lighting made it extremely difficult to see and the window faced the blank visage of another building. There was hardly any way to tell. From the slight shadow and light footfalls, it was a girl. Tom relaxed slightly, it was probably one of the younger girls who couldn't sleep. He hated having the reputation for making strange things happen and further his image as a freak (it made Higgins even more brutal if anything 'freakish' he had done caused trouble), but at times they were useful.

But he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard the soft familiar whisper of, "Hey, Tom. I know you're up." He sat up quickly, only to be pushed down by a strong hand. Then he felt something heavy move on top of him. On the rickety nightstand to his right, a candle was lit up, the dim glow illuminating a pitiful circle of the room.

Tom started in shock, but quickly recovered to send an impressive scowl at the intruder. It was Emily, the girl who had come in at dinner not even hiding what she had done. One of the few people he had trusted in, who had betrayed him by accepting all of what Endsville was, leaving him behind and preferring to be complimented and petted by Frankie and Bobby. And here she was, lying on top of him and pinning him in such a way that he couldn't move, and from what he could see, wearing the same thing she had when she walked in.

He really should have expected it from her, but he had hoped. She had apparently hit puberty and was now eager to see what was out there and what she could do now that she was a 'woman'. Emily LeGrant had been one of those pretty girls who developed early. Even now on her fairylike face, her brown eyes glinting in the candlelight and her thick brown hair loose, Tom could tell that those plans that she had admitted to him before – about moving out of Endsville, getting an education, and being a doctor – were thoroughly abandoned for the allure and danger that were Endsville's only glamour.

"What do you want, Emily?" he hissed out angrily. "Get off of me, say what you want, and get lost. I don't want you anywhere here or better yet, anywhere near me ever again." This normally would send anyone who was messing with him off on his or her way. Normally. Emily LeGrant, who was once someone he actually dared to call a friend, merely chuckled mildly in his face.

The pretty girl merely laughed and it made him even more annoyed. Finally, she stopped and leaned in until they were nose to nose. "Typical Viper, but it's okay. C'mon, cutie. Loosen up! You aren't…I don't know…_jealous_ that I paid some attention to Frankie and Bobby today, are you?" she murmured softly. Tom could barely hear her over the now screaming springs of the mattress in the next room, which gave his own an almost fearful ambiance. She giggled again and he could feel the vibrations go through her body. "There's no need to be," she said smiling, almost innocently.

Tom wasn't deceived and refrained from spitting in her face at the insinuation. "Don't delude yourself, Emily." She kept laughing at him, the only way he could tell was from the movements her body made. His 'neighbors' next door were apparently getting more into what they were doing. "Those things you said to me, those dreams of getting out of here and being a doctor, those were just a pack of filthy lies, weren't they?" he accused, his chest tight with anger. Within the sparks of indignation and rage running loose through his mind, he could sense the voice trying to speak to him but he tried to ignore it.

Emily merely smirked. "Yeah. I hope you aren't mad, but I was curious about you. There's a whole world out there, full of wild fun and pleasure. But you're different, you know that? And different is interesting. Different is fun." He wanted to get away from that smile. She sighed and continued, overlooking his tension and smiling benignly down at him again. "It's too bad that you don't see the beauty of it."

"It would help," he shot back, "if you tell me what beauty you're talking about. I certainly don't see any in this dump."

The façade dropped a bit now and she bit her lip in annoyance. "Why are you fighting it, Tom?!" The wall separating his room from the next cracked a bit, a cloud of plaster showering down all over Billy's meager trunk of belongings in the corner. "There's only this place for us. Instead of torturing yourself and making yourself unhappy, why don't you accept it? None of us ever leave Endsville. Endsville is the world." She leaned in even closer and he turned his head obstinately to the side.

His eyes widened at the wet feel of what were undeniable her lips on his neck. "Stop it, Em," he demanded, starting to struggle, but the girl didn't listen. It seemed to encourage her. She was sucking and kissing, and Tom winced as her teeth sank into his skin. That was going to leave a mark. "Emily, quit it!"

This time she did stop. "What's wrong, Viper?" she said in his ear, her hot breath teasing him, and he moved before she had the chance to bite that as well. "I said there wasn't any need to worry. And I mean it." Emily gave him that smile again, that smile that Frankie and Bobby were competing for, that smile that Tom once thought was friendly and nice. He didn't like it now. "I know what I'm doing, cutie, it's alright. Certainly you've noticed by now."

"Noticed what?" he asked. He was dreading the answer.

Emily laughed again. "That I like you, of course. _Like _you. You're different. You're _dangerous_. It helps a lot that you're undeniably cute. And I _like _that." The fact that he had gasped when she kissed straight on the lips made it all the more easier for her to take advantage of the situation. He couldn't move, he was so much in shock.

"GET IN THERE, YOU MANGY PIECE OF CRAP!" roared Higgins as he smashed through the door. The caretaker, short and grizzly, his ugly face contorted revoltingly with rage, through the large body of a teenager into the room. Silas Higgins, an older man in his late forties, pulled at the short beard that he hadn't the time to shave yet as he watched with ill-concealed glee at Billy's huddled form shaking pathetically on the floor. "That's what you get for smashing the dishes. Worthless!" It was then that Higgins turned a nasty look towards Tom, or rather Tom and Emily. Tom barely had the time to notice that Emily had stopped kissing him before Higgins rounded on him.

The beady eyes widened when they took in the sight and Tom knew, instinctively, that this was not going to turn out well at all for him. 

"Well…," he drawled out, "what do we have here…" Watching the malicious grin form, showing disgusting teeth yellowed from years of smoking cigarettes and rotten from booze, Tom knew that Emily would be let off the hook. Instead, he would be the one to take the fall. "Think you're a big man now, Riddle?" Higgins cackled. "Think you could handle women? A little runt like you?" Higgins spat, a nasty habit that the caretaker had which particularly annoyed him. "I don't think so!"

As he was being dragged off, Higgins holding him fast by the collar of his too-large shirt, he now could hear the voice clearly in his head…

…_Patience…patience…we will have our time…patience…he'll pay…he'll **pay**…_

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In terms of quality, the kitchen was by far the best room in the house. This excluding Higgins' rooms, but since you were only allowed there when you were **really **in trouble, then it didn't matter. Beneath his scuffed old boots, the rough blue tile was crumbling into dust. The stoves were a constant fire hazard if you didn't know how to work them properly, which a majority of the children did not. Copper and the occasional steel pans and spoons hung from the ceiling by strings tied on to cheap wire hangers. There wasn't any surprise felt if they all came crashing down at some point during the day or night. The wooden countertops had been covered with cheap canvas by some of the more innovative older teenagers. No one wanted wooden splinters in their food to go along with any that may have stuck in their feet. The drawers that held the utensils usually stuck and the glasses were generally piled up in a sink crusted in brown-red rust. They along with their dirty chipped dishes were washed every night, every single one of them.

Higgins always let Tom out of the Basement sooner than the others. Everyone knew that. But no one was jealous of him for this 'privilege'. The only reason why Tom Riddle was allowed to leave the Basement early was for the simple reason that he was the favorite person to taunt. Also, he was one of the few in the orphanage that could make a decent meal. That was his primary chore and responsibility. Sure, he wasn't allowed much of what of what he made, but it was still a fact. All of the kids had a job, though the trick was to get someone else to do it. The toughest work was in the kitchen. Of course, the kids who Higgins hated always got stuck there.

There was always someone right next to him, watching him as he cooked, making sure that he didn't add anything 'extra' to the food. The idea had amused him for years – their son-of-a-bitch caretaker already knew that he would be in danger. Though, Tom reflected as he diced a small and meager onion into small squares, if Higgins did have some latent ability for prophecy, it was probably due to those drugs that he injected into himself. Tom had heard somewhere that they messed with the mind.

_…He'll pay…pay with his life…blood for our pain…he'll pay…they'll all play…_

"Tom?" a timid voice called out. The dark-haired boy was taken away from his thoughts looking over to the far side of the kitchen by the rubbish bin. Sitting cross-legged on the grimy floor, hunched over as if he were trying to hide from sight, Billy Sanders was looking up at him with pitiful brown eyes. Like all others he had seen with Billy's condition, there was a childlike innocence in the older teen. His cropped light brown hair, cut close to his skull, was the only solution to Higgins' tendency to drag him by his hair. Like Tom, he also wore more clothing than was practical – though Tom had the feeling it was because Billy was either copying him or just didn't know better.

Tom blinked mildly before returning to onion chopping. He had bribed his watcher into leaving him alone with some cheap candy he had stolen from Bobby. The eight-year-old kid had already been induced into the job anyway by another boy Tom's own age. "Something wrong, Billy?" he asked gently. Tom knew that there were probably those a bit smarter than Billy that had…whatever he had…but he doubted any of those had grown up in Carthage Orphanage, much less grew up in Endsville.

"Make the voice go away," Billy pleaded, looking about to cry right there and then. It made a sorry picture, the curled potato peelings piled around him, a potato and a dull knife in his hands. "I don't like the voice."

_The voice…he could hear…impossible. _"Wha-What are you talking about, Billy?" he replied, nervously, flinching slightly. "There's no one else here. Just you and me. I wasn't talking at all."

Billy shook his head adamantly, his wild movements knocking over the bin and scattering refuse onto the floor. "No, no! Bad voice, Tom! Make it go away! Bad voice wants to do awful things," he wailed. "No good! No good! Go away, bad voice!" Genuinely worried now, Tom rushed over and pried the knife out of Billy's hands before he could hurt himself. The older boy then started flailing and convulsing, as if in pain. Struggling to help him, he winced as Billy inadvertently hit a few of his still tender bruises from the night before. Higgins didn't exactly let up on him.

Suddenly, Billy grabbed Tom by the collar and looked at him with clear, intelligent eyes. "I remember that voice, Tom," he said perfectly, no slurred words or muttered phrases. Now Tom was _definitely _worried and just a trifle scared. "I told you that I was a star, right? In the sky? I know that voice and the others like it. They're terrible, Tom, terrible." The hand holding him began to shake in fright. "I remember them. They were the ones that helped kill my companions, they were the ones that caused the Great War that ended the Golden Age, they were the ones…we were defenseless after the Verdict. We were no match without the Dark-Winged Ones. They were the ones…they were the ones that killed…me…"

As quickly as it had come, that spark of awareness and lucidity vanished. Muttering something unintelligible between his tears, Billy ran out of the kitchen crying. From where he stood frozen, looking after him, he could hear some rather loud oaths and curses following after the afflicted teen. Not too long later, Higgins hollered that he wanted breakfast sometime soon in the next five years.

Sighing, Tom caught a glance at his reflection on the surface of a steel pan. He saw a small, painfully thin boy looking back at him with large, haunted dark blue eyes. His hair, dark brown and black, was in need of a good wash and cut. Stuck up and out here and there, fell around his face and over his forehead, sometimes getting into his eyes. A purple bruise was blossoming on his left cheek, more noticeable on his pale skin. The high gray collar of his drab uniform hid the mark that Emily left on his neck.

He tore his eyes away from the image in disgust, glancing down at his boots and the garbage strewn around the floor. He could never admit that he was a weak little thing that couldn't do anything. The thought that he had to live through all this…with this _trash_…and couldn't do anything about it made him want to scream. There were those who tried to run away before. Higgins always got them back. He had **_a lot_** of friends to help him search for his little moneymakers. One child less meant one check less from the government.

It was then, as he was grimacing at his circumstances, he noticed a letter lying on the floor half-hidden beneath the potato peels and the broken glass shards of a vinegar bottle. Curious, he carefully picked it up from amidst the glass and rinds. Higgins didn't usually leave letters lying in the trash. Looking at the envelope, he was surprised to find in sparkling green ink, written in a round and friendly cursive hand…

_Mr. T.M. Riddle  
Third Floor Corner Bedroom  
178 Carthage Boulevard  
Readmouth, Winchester_

With slightly hesitating hands, he broke the purple seal and slipped the letter out. His fingers noted the strange feel of the paper, not like the usual kind that he was used to. Eager eyes read the letter, reread the text again and again, nearly unable to believe it to be true.

It was a letter.

A letter for him.

A letter that claimed that he was accepted to a school. One that seemed to actually **teach** something.

A letter that said that magic – something he had stopped believing in when he was four years old – was **_real_**_…_

…And that he **_had _**magic…


	3. Poisonous Eyes

_Disclaimer:_ I only own the plot and the concept, along with any original characters and places you don't recognize.

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**Warning!** Some aspects of this story will be a bit adult (nothing too big, but Tom doesn't exactly live the good life. Not only is there abuse, but there is some cursing, coarse language, and sexual allusions). Just warning you ahead of time.

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**Elemental Malice**

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****

Chapter Three  
**Poisonous Eyes**

_You have to fight to survive. You have to fight to get what you want._

_I think that's the most important truth I've learned in this poor excuse for a life. Higgins never said it, nor did the older kids. You didn't learn it from the drunks in the gutters or from the businessmen who come here to get their heroin and cocaine. You didn't learn it from the sluts selling themselves on the corner or from the pimps. Who was there to learn from? If intelligence was water, then the entire population of Endsville probably couldn't even fill a pint collectively._

_You learn nearly everything on your own because that's all you have._

_There is no one to guide you through life here. I don't think that there is anyone here that knows anything about anything worthwhile here. There are only drugs, sex, and violence here. Any thing else seems destined to be beaten down and trampled by the cruelty of those heartless lowlifes. Nothing grows here – even the plants are puny and pale, the trees are more like bare sticks that protrude from the polluted earth. The water is murky and filthy. The breeze stinks of smoke and chemicals from the factories not too far away. There is only concrete and dirt here._

_You only have yourself. Relying on anyone else is dangerous. Trust is nonexistent here – loyalty unknown except to those who have power over you in some fashion. You only have you. If that's what it takes to survive and fight through this hell then that was it._

_When I was little, I used to think that someone would come for me. Maybe some long-lost relative or a friend of my mother's would remember me. My desperation had one time reached a point when I wanted **my father** to come and whisk me away. It didn't take long for me to realize that it would never happen. There was no savior for me – I was forsaken from all sympathy and moral obligation from others._

_But there are places were there is green. Majestic trees with branches laden and thick with leaves, birds singing, and a breeze that is fresh and clean. There are places where you can see the water that is clear. There are places were there are flowers of all kinds._

_Paradise existed somewhere. And I would love to leave all this behind and be **there**._

_But I was alone. And no one was going to save me from damnation._

_- Tom M. Riddle_

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For once, the night of Endsville was still. Why? Because it was far too hot to do anything. The heat just sapped your strength right out of you. This was the sole reason as to why it was for quiet for once. But due to the very cause of this peace, Tom could not rest. 

_Simple convenience, that's all it was,_ Tom thought sardonically. This wasn't because there was some form of divine providence or anything like that. Such ideas were idiotic and foolish – the mere notion of religion was that it was a waste of time to put faith in some high and mighty deity that probably didn't even exist anyway and if this God did exist, he served to only make life miserable. The only church near by was the old and decrepit one three blocks away. No one remembered its name – it was a ghost with its broken windows, crumbling stones, and dusty pews – it had disappeared along with its spirit in the fire, the ash still scarring the old walls. They say that the priest who used to have a congregation of ten people (which was pretty successful considering the history of that church) tried to reform Endsville and had gotten on the wrong side of the wrong people.

But he was killed in the fire.

It was an _accident_, according to witnesses. Witnesses that happened to be the very people the priest had a problem with.

The edifice was never rebuilt or cleaned up. No funds were taken up to help restore it. It remained there, a shell, empty and forbidding, little by little slowly being eaten up by time. There was never another priest again and the congregation split up – moving out, losing hope, or getting killed in more _accidents_.

It wasn't anything new in Endsville. It was best to make sure to make enemies with those you knew you could handle. If not, then you more or less likely ended up disappearing from reality and memory

No one remembered the name of the church. It was a perfect physical representation of religion. In Endsville, there was only Hell. And the great flames of that Inferno managed to even take down the house of God and kill its messenger with ease. Faith, in nearly all forms, was obsolete.

But Tom knew about that church.

_Though one would think that the fire was back again,_ Tom thought as he wiped the sweat from his forehead futilely, lying on his bed looking up at the ceiling with tired blue eyes. There really wasn't any point – it was far too hot and his hair and skin were soaked. Even in the relentless heat, Tom wore long clothing. Billy did the same. But it was cooler, slightly, now than during the day. There was no relief inside or out – Higgins refused to leave the building and had kids serving to his every need, even _fanning_ him. That's what Tom had heard anyway from a few of the other Untouchables.

Again, he had spent the night and this time, the day, in the Basement. For extra measure, Higgins brought the dogs in too cool off and let them 'keep the Freak company'. He was let out after dinner, sweaty and covered in bruises and bites. A piece of bread was thrown at him and he was told that it was curfew time.

The usual curfew time was at eleven at night, though Tom made sure to **never** be outside the orphanage at night. Higgins was saying it was seven. It was easy to figure out which one you were supposed to follow. Curfew time was when **everyone** was to go to his or her rooms and go to sleep. It was hard to do that at seven this night, the summer sun's rays managing to permeate through all the pieces of newspapers that Tom had managed to paste on the windows in an attempt to keep the room dark.

For another two hours, the sun illuminated the articles of the newspapers. The only one that was complete was the nearest to Tom. It was about a thirteen year-old boy named Jacob Templeton, his dead body was found raped and beaten on the side of a highway. In the black and white ink, the picture of the boy's lifeless and broken seeming less human and more like a limp doll lying forgotten in the long grass. The photo was taken in such a way that the dead eyes were looking straight at you, the tearstains only barely visible, the face still caught in an expression of horror and anguish. _An utter and unthinkable tragedy_, the newspaper gushed in the thrilled tones of a macabre gossip as it recounted the grisly details again and again. _We won't rest until this young man is brought to justice,_ the police commented.

Tom looked at this picture for two hours impassively, remembering how only the week before how a thirteen-year-old boy named Jacob Templeton had attempted to steal some money and some pornographic pamphlets from Higgins' office but was caught. That night, while he was making a necessary trip to their poor excuse of a lavatory, he saw an expensive looking car pulled up in front of the orphanage. Tom had watched as the struggling boy was thrown into the car struggling and crying, a gag muffling his screams as he was shoved into the car. Templeton never came back.

Justice was something that none of them were deserving of, according to the rules of Fate. Death was their only freedom.

"Billy?" he asked softly in the thick humid darkness. Billy's shape was only a deeper darkness in the shadowed night. Tom had always had better night vision than most. "You okay?" Billy's large and huddled form only shuddered and sniffled – Billy was used to using his gestures as answers rather than speaking. Mildly annoyed by this and the heat, he spoke again. "It's nighttime, Billy. You can't see in the night. You need to answer."

There was a pause, and then Billy started talking rapidly, his voice breaking and cracking in places. "Yes…no…they always pick on me…call me Turtle…I don't wanna be here…everything is bad…everything is evil, they want to get me…I want to be in the sky…friends and stars…I don't want to be here, don't want to be here…" As he continued on and on in his segmented rant, Billy's voice grew softer and softer, as well as sleepier and more tired. The other younger boy knew that Billy was finally falling asleep instead of torturing himself in his afflicted mind. It was the one of the few kindnesses he could offer.

_Was that magic? What I did to make Billy fall asleep? It can't be that simple. I've been doing that all my life. But then I am a freak._

Billy continued to mutter in his sleep, a strange mantra that was inherently eerie. The last person who shared Billy's room ran screaming when Billy started speaking like this, shivering in fear. Tom felt the power of the words, the strange truth to them, but he wasn't frightened of it. He knew their **realness**. Somehow. "…Only venom, only venom…war is on the winds of the stars…Heaven, Universe, Hell all clash…poisonous eyes in the darkness, eyes of those born of the darkness…Earth…Earth spells the End…only cruelty, only death, only venom…"

"Only venom," Tom repeated softly to himself, his blue eyes glowing slightly as if from an inner energy, and gold and silver flecks just barely visible in their infinite and contemplative depths.

* * *

The reason why Tom Riddle knew about the church was because it was his haven. Within that ruin, he could find shade. He could find shelter. He could find solitude. Even though the wreck looked more haunted than cathartic, it was one of the few places where he could achieve his peace. Tom stayed out of sight from the main road and buildings surrounding it, retreating to the small courtyard full of yew trees. It probably was the refuge of the priests before him, since the only way to access it was through the charred remains of the rectory. 

Managing to dodge through the debris and avoid the holes in the floor that opened up into dark chasms, he pushed open the heavy wooden door. Tom was a small boy, even for his age, and it took a lot to just open that door. Though he always pushed a little of his will into it so that it was easier. There was no point in making things harder for him than it already was.

The yew trees always reminded him of death – they stood bare most of the year, gnarled and battle scarred from the fire. Only now did they have leaves, but they were small in number and pathetic. But considering Endsville in general, they seemed like redwoods. A collapsed part of the roof managed to provide some more shadow. There was nothing peaceful about it. Rather, it stank of ghostly dreams and phantasms. No birds sang here and the grass was as brown and dry as the grass growing in the cemetery.

Tom did not love this place. He hated it much like the rest of Endsville. But compared to the rest of the shoddy town, it was despised less. Unlike anywhere else, bullies weren't hiding in the corners ready to jump you nor were the sluts calling out or the drunks hobbling along the streets in their self-induced stupor. It was its loneliness that appealed to him – a loneliness that he shared, and it was better than the Carthage Orphanage building on many levels. Though they were both barely livable.

He had hidden something in the grove that he could keep it away from Higgins. While he was more or less the most defiant child to Higgins that probably ever walked the dirty halls of Carthage Orphanage, another night in the Basement was unbearable. Especially with those insufferable dogs.

_Magic…_he couldn't stop thinking about it. What it was, how to do it? What could magic do – could it heal, could it hurt? What was its nature. And how was he, Tom Riddle, a wizard? What **was** a wizard exactly? Were they like the ones in those fairy tales or were they different? What was the point of this 'Hogwarts School'? What would he learn there? Where was it? How could he get there? How could he get his supplies? Did he need money?

The last two were the questions that needed immediate solving first. The rest he would find out later. He was sure that it wasn't a joke – the thought hadn't even occurred to him until hours later, and even then it was dismissed.

No, Hogwarts existed. And he, for some inexplicable reason, belonged there. **That** was where he was supposed to be, not in Endsville.

The door opened completely, illuminating the darkness of the rectory ruins, and two sets of hands immediately grabbed him and pulled him out. Before he knew it, he was thrown into the ground of the courtyard, his ears filled with the heckling laughter of about five or six boys. As the dust settled and his eyes did not sting, he chanced a look up to see Frankie Boone and Bobby Peters standing above him. They were standing in their usual way – shoulders thrown far back, bent legs so that they bounced slightly when they walked, their arms crossed across their chests while smiling in malice.

Tom hated them, especially when they acted just like Silas Higgins. And they seemed, in Tom's opinion, to get more like that dirty bastard each and every day. He glared up at them, blue eyes shining with anger and hate, his hands fisting in the dry dust and parched grass. His brown-black hair was sticking up at all angles, a smudge of dirt smearing his left cheek.

Behind them stood Emily LeGrant, smiling coquettishly as she leaned against the crumbling stone wall, waving slightly. He scowled viciously at her, a feral hiss escaping his throat, before those same two sets of hands pulled him to his knees. His two main torturers grinned down at him nastily; their rotting and missing teeth combined with their dirty and ugly faces did not make a pretty picture. Tom's defiant stare increased in intensity when Frankie spit at him, the wet saliva sliding down his cheek and dropping down to the dry earth, which surprisingly did not absorb it.

"Well," Bobby laughed in amusement, "look'ee here. So this is where the Viper slithers off to all the time." There was a shared look among them. "Here, and that cemetery. Do you actually **_like_** being around death! What, find our company that bad!" There was a round of laughter, mocking, loud in the fire-haunted courtyard, echoing slightly. It was as if the ghosts of the dead that still presided over this dead place and Tom could hear their whispery laughter joined with the others – just as derisive as their mortal counterparts. _This is a child of Melania, pathetic…the Dark Sovereign on his knees before these pathetic mortals…the line of darkness has truly fallen…look at this child, descendant of a great one…wasn't he the one who used to lead…Harbingers…a joke!_ If anything, it did disturb him, but the bubbling anger he could feel within himself was starting to distract him.

Everything was in a cycle. There was a dull roar in his ears, beginning to drown out the noise and the taunts. The cruel brats did not take any notice in his inattention, they only continued in their hurtful games. It was all they knew – any notion of empathy or morality never even entered their pitiful excuses for minds or hearts. Frankie pulled back his fist and struck the first blow, catching Tom hard on the side of the head. The younger boy stumbled from the punch, a trickle of blood now trailing from his temple, but he was prevented from falling by the two arms.

The rest closed on him, cracking their knuckles menacingly, looking more like animals than humans with their eager and gleeful smiles, their eyes only containing the desire to harm. Tom was reminded of the shining eyes of Higgins' dogs, how they had that similar looks, when he was kicked hard in the stomach. _There's a difference…the dogs…they aren't **mindless**_, he noted as the hits rained down on him.

If there were three or less, he could defend himself. It was what made 'the Viper' an Untouchable – he fought back. He would punch, kick, bite – anything to defy. It was why they only attacked him in groups. And even when he was held down like he was, he wouldn't beg for mercy nor would he cry. He would take it. Untouchable. And that was what made him a favorite target.

"What's at the cemetery? Only dead bodies rotting and worms!"

"Yeah, maybe Viper has a death wish!"

"His mum's there, she's probably being eaten up by the maggots as we speak. Good riddance, I say. After all, look what she pushed out into the world!"

"A bloody worthless freak!"

"Pah! He's not even an orphan! What about your _daddy_, Riddle? He's actually alive and can take you in! You have to be a freak if your own father wouldn't take you in!"

In between the crook of Frankie's arm, he could see Emily still standing against the stone wall. She was looking at the scene calmly, a small smug smile gracing her pretty face as she watched. He knew why she was smiling. But she was wrong. It would take a lot more than just a simple beating to make him accept this world.

A chill wind started to blow, swirling around them, driving out the oppressive blanket of heat. The few leaves on the yew trees rustled, like dry paper crackling, like tiny fireworks. It roused some small dust devils. The boys shifted on their feet, shivering from the new cold in their thin clothing, alarmed at the change. Unbeknownst to him, his eyes were glowing slightly – a poisonous looking blue, the only feelings within them being rage and loathing. Above them, the sky began to darken with black clouds, when before had been only clear blue. There was a palpable tension in the air.

Tom couldn't feel it at all…there was only his anger…only his **_hate_**…

"My skin! My skin! It's BURNING!"

"My eyes! I can't see!"

"This place is haunted! **Really** haunted!"

"Let's get out of here!"

"Yeah! Just go! Get out of my way!"

A hysterical female voice. "What about Riddle? We can't just leave him here!"

"Shut up and let's go! He's a freak anyway, who's going to care!"

"But we can't-"

"Shut it or we'll leave you here too!"

There was a crack of lightning, blinding him in its wrathful light, the thunder breaking the air like a bomb. The heavens seemed to open up and water came pouring down. It was a deluge just falling from the sky, no droplets, and no shower. It tore the leaves from the yew branches and pummeled the earth into mud. It slid off the stones of the church

Alone, still kneeling on the ground, now thick mud, Tom Riddle turned his eyes to the stormy sky above him. His hair was plastered to his scalp and his poor clothes were soaked, sticking to his skin. His arms were clutched around his stomach, hugging himself and feeling the purple bruises marring his skin, noting how his right eye was swelling. Motionless, his eyes were shining that poisonous electric blue, unseeing everything except the chaos happening above.

He then turned his eyes away at the flicker of movement.

There was a ghost standing a few feet away, pale and hazy, as if Tom were looking through a smoky window. It was a boy, older at probably fifteen or sixteen. He was thin and wiry, a kind of tempestuous and wind-like aura to him. They both had dark messy hair and there was an incredible resemblance between them. Tom would say that it could have been himself, but he would be wrong.

Tom didn't wear glasses. Tom didn't have a scar on his forehead. Tom didn't have those bright and deep green eyes that seemed just as sad as his own were.

There was a connection between them and Tom knew not to be afraid of this specter. It was different from the other ones who wanted to hurt him, different from the voice in his head. This ghost…wouldn't hurt him.

"Only venom," he whispered softly, a poignant determination in his young voice. "Only venom."

The other looked on, watching him with those unfathomable green eyes, as the storm raged around them. And Tom knew that whoever the other was, he understood. He was definitely unlike the others, even if he did not speak. It was from them, both him and the other, that the storm came. They _were _the storm.

The other…understood the pain.

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We'll get to Hogwarts soon enough. He's got his letter and he's beginning to think about his magic and what it could be used for. Before, he only knew that it could heal and do a few minor things. Now, he knows that it could hurt others. 

Guess who's the _'ghost'_ at the end?

Next chapter, someone finally tries to contact Tom.

-Raven Dragonclaw


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